In July 1972, my brother Dave and I were traveling by train over the Pyrenees in route to Pamplona Spain.  We were eager to “observe” the running of the bulls.  I say “observe” because we really did have the best of intentions.  You’ve probably heard of the festival.  Reckless young men dress in white and run through the streets of Pamplona straining to stay a step ahead of a herd of charging bulls rampaging through the city.  This kind of craziness is catnip for a certain breed of wayward rednecks adrift on an endless wave of European adventure.  There’s London and Paris.  There’s the French and Italian Rivieras.  There’s Barcelona, Florence and Rome.  And, of course, there’s Pamplona. 

Well, Dave ran into a--a mishap and we never made it to the Festival of the Bulls.  But that’s a whole other story.  Anyway, while Dave was healing up in Burgos, we fell in with some fun loving Spanish gypsies who were great fans of American blues music.  That was a happy coincidence because Dave and I were great fans of Spanish sangria.

We all spent a very dignified evening of highbrow cultural exchange.  Dave and I furnished the lyrics to House of the Rising Sun, Mean Woman Blues  and I Am Your Back Door Man etc.  Our gypsy friends furnished back-up guitar and--well--sangria.

At some point, one of our friends proposed a toast to “The King”--Elvis that is.  Protocol demanded that I return the honor.  So I raised a glass to El Cid, the Spanish National hero.   My gesture set off a chain reaction.  See, the Cid, himself, is buried in the cathedral there in Burgos.  He was born a few miles north of the spot where we were enjoying our cultural exchange.

My toast to “The Cid” was overheard by some passers by who felt that courtesy required them to add some culture of their own to the evening.  Before the night was over, they were raising glasses of honor to Washington, Jefferson and Monroe--Marilyn that is.  Naturally, Dave and I offered salutes to Carlos Montoya, Ponce de Leon, Vasco da Gama and Christopher Columbus.  That last one caused a bit of a hiccup as Columbus was Italian.  We probably would have remembered that earlier in the evening.

Even though it might me said we dropped the ball--culturally speaking-- our Spanish friends overlooked our “faux pas.”  The night was given over to that form of brotherhood born of warm evenings, soulful music and full bodied spirits.  What a great experience that was!  I’m pretty sure I remember it.

The next morning, I paid respects to the Cid himself.  Outside the cathedral where he is buried, along with his beloved wife and legendary war horse, there is a stirring statue.  There is El Cid, larger than life, in full armor, cape flowing behind mounted on the most famous charger in Spanish history, sword pointed outward, in full gallop.

I had been waiting for that moment since I was twelve years old.  El Cid, the movie starring Charleton Heston, reached Oklahoma in 1962.  You remember the film.  In the closing scene, the Cid’s body is bound to a frame attached to his saddle.  In death, he is mounted, once again on his war horse.  A banner is placed in his hand.  The gates of Valencia are thrown open and El Cid rides into battle one last time.  The music swells and the fallen hero appears to be riding proudly along the seashore.  He disappears into the world of legend and imagination.

That inspiring end to an honorable and gallant life left a permanent mark on the boy who is now, yours truly.  To my young eyes, the life of courage, duty and honor was the only path to true manliness.  Still true today, isn’t it?

Sometimes I worry that heroes like El Cid, and other warrior knights are being forgotten.  Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if they were being replaced by something just as good.  Surely we need something better than sports figures, music moguls and movie stars to hold up as role models.

Oh, by the way, July 10 is the 910^th anniversary of the death of Rodrigo de Vivar--El Cid.  Find a little boy and tell him the story.  My grandsons are too young this year.  But believe me, they’ll hear it from gramps a lot before they’re men. 

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

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